


Call me from Death

by White_Ithiliel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Beleg and Túrin need hugs, Brother Feels, Fix-It, Gen, Gwindor Is A Good Dad, Hurt/Comfort, No Slash, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 13:11:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10945203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Ithiliel/pseuds/White_Ithiliel
Summary: The flash of a white sword, an agonizing scream, a shout of horror and disbelief, and the pounding rain…..."BELEG!"





	Call me from Death

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first English fanfic ever – and also my first Silmarillion fanfic (with some bits of the Children of Húrin, like Gwindor's description). And this is ALSO my first h/c fanfic. And the longest story I ever finished. Lots of firsts, I know xD   
> I had already published this on Fanfiction.net, but I thought it might be cool to post it here too :)

_The flash of a white sword, an agonizing scream, a shout of horror and disbelief, and the pounding rain…_

~oOo~

" _Beleg!"_

Beleg turned around, astonished. A voice had to called him; he was certain of it. How could it be? Was there someone here other than himself?

His keen eyes tried to pierce the darkness, but it was in vain. No one was to be found in these shadows. They were just too deep, too empty. He could not allow himself to think that he had heard something. Otherwise, he would soon become mad.

Beleg sighed deeply. He was alone, he told himself. No doubt he had hallucinated.

He sat down, his fair head bowed low, and began to sing quietly in an attempt to escape the loneliness. The voice cried again.

" _Beleg, do not linger here; come back!"_

That startled the elf. He knew that voice, he remembered it, and he also knew for sure that it was not a monster from his imagination. He stood up and called back.

" _Who are you? Who is there?"_

" _Beleg, Beleg, it is I! It is Túrin! Come back to me; do not stay here! You do not belong to the shadows. They shall not claim you, my friend!"_

The elf went from disturbed to downright panicked. The pleading tone in Túrin's voice was more than enough to convince him to leave this place right now, only he had not the slightest clue of where "this place" was. It was just a black and endless void, and Beleg did not remember how he had ended up here. He did not know how to get out. He did not know how to find his friend.

A gust of wind suddenly sent shivers down his spine.

Beleg gasped in surprise. Never before had he felt cold. It was not natural for an elf. And by Eru, from whence did that blasted wind come? How could something like wind even exist in this nothingness?

Beleg yelled, hoping that Túrin would somehow hear him, " _Túrin, help me! Please! I do not know where the way back is. I do not even know where I am. Please help me, brother!"_

At first no one answered, and the elf thought Túrin gone. Tears began to stream down his handsome face, and a lump formed in his throat. He was utterly lost, more than he had ever been. But then the young man's voice sounded again, more distant than before but clear nonetheless.

Beleg's immortal heart skipped a beat.

" _Brother, listen my words, come to the light! You must fight what holds you. I would drag you all the way back if it was possible, but I cannot do that if you do not fight."_

Beleg wanted to fight. Yes, he wanted to. But how? He did not even know who his enemy was.

Suddenly, he felt as if something was clutching his chest and throat, making it hard to breathe, blackening his vision and eventually forcing his eyes to slid shut in pain.

" _So that is what Túrin meant_ ," thought Beleg wryly. " _Well, it is good to know I am_ actually _supposed to fight something._ "

And he fought. Gathering every ounce of willpower he had, he pushed the thing away. The elf remembered happier times: his life in the wilds with Túrin, Mablung, Oropher and young Nellas, and all the other friends he had… He would have been incapable of saying how it had worked, but the fact was that the darkness recoiled somewhat. A small cry of relief almost escaped his lips, but he held it back. What was he supposed to do now? The shadow was gone but it would not be for long, and he was still trapped here!

A new gust of wind brought him to his knees, and the living darkness that had almost choked Beleg crawled toward him again.

" _Túrin_ ," he screamed, " _help me! I can feel it coming back!"_

A second later, Beleg was clinging on the edge of a cliff, his hands slipping with every moment that passed.

" _How did this happen?"_ thought the Firstborn with sheer terror. " _Cliffs cannot just appear from nowhere!_ "

His grip was weakening, and soon he would have fallen if a firm hand had not caught him. He felt strength pour in his exhausted body and he tried to look up, but somehow he could not. So he just stayed still, gripping tightly the hand that was holding him.

And then, Túrin's voice again. " _Do not let go, Beleg! Pull yourself up!"_

What happened next was all blurred and foggy, a mix of emotions, feelings, memories and darkness. Beleg first thought that he was falling, but the second later he was climbing up, and then he was thrown back in the abyss, and then he was hoisted up by someone.

The last thing Beleg knew before a wave of unbearable pain crushed him was that he had somehow reached the top of the cliff, and that his eyes had mysteriously closed in the process.

He wanted to open them, he wanted to scream, but he was just too utterly weak and exhausted. He managed a soft moan and his eyelids fluttered, but that was all.

Around him, winds were swirling and voices were speaking in hushed tones that Beleg was unable to hear properly.

His ears were buzzing, he had a horrible headache, his side was throbbing mercilessly, his whole body was consumed by fire and it also felt as if a great weight was upon his chest. His breathing came in panicked gasps and his heartbeat raced like a deer hunted by a wolf.

The whispering voice became stronger and the trees' deep murmurs turned worried.

Beleg then remembered something through his agony. _Túrin_. It was Túrin that had guided him through the void, so the human had to be near. If only Beleg was strong enough to search for him! He needed to see if the young man was alright; he…

The elf's wish came true but a moment later, when a hand squeezed his with infinite gentleness and concern. Soft words of comfort soothed Beleg's fears and the immortal allowed himself to drift into an uneasy sleep, not very refreshing but at least nothing similar to the shadows where his spirit had lost itself earlier.

Of what happened next, Beleg grasped only fragments, blurred pictures or feelings that did not make much sense and were for the most part very unpleasant.

_Himself being carried…_

_Túrin's comforting words…_

_Wet cloths wiping the sweat off his feverish brow…_

_Moans and cries of pain – his own…_

_Cool water cleaning the wound on his side…_

_The fire of an injury being stitched…_

_Hands changing the bloodied bandages or giving him tea…_

_Hallucinations, visions of a destroyed Doriath, of King Thingol, Queen Melian, Nellas, Mablung and Oropher's dead bodies…_

_Searing agony…_

And the cold. The overwhelming cold that was making his teeth chatter, his limbs feel numb, and his body shiver like a leaf in the middle of a storm.

Why, _why_ could it not stop? He wanted warmth, he _needed_ warmth! But nobody seemed to care, and Beleg was left alone to face this new _oh so horrible_ feeling.

The only anchor he had to keep his sanity was Túrin's presence. It was like a beam of moonlight in the middle of the darkest night. Like a rock in an agitated sea. For Túrin was his brother, and what could possibly go wrong if his brother was there?

Hours passed – or days, or weeks, or years; Beleg would have been unable to tell.

After a long – _long_ – time by the elf's reckoning, his strength had grown enough to allow him to fully regain consciousness. The pain had relatively lessened too. He was still cold and weak, but Beleg was tired of being so completely helpless and unaware of his surroundings. So he tried to wake up.

He tried to open his eyes, but it proved to be incredibly difficult and so it took him a great amount of time and willpower. His eyelids seemed to be made of stone.

When he finally won the fight against his utterly exhausted body, his grey – and oh so worn and tired – gaze fell on a motionless human figure that was resting only a few feet away.

Beleg's heart leapt in surprised joy.

It was Túrin, laying in a most awkward position and snoring lightly.

Beleg would have laughed at the sight if he were not so weary and hurting. Nevertheless, a flash of mirth lit his eyes for the briefest moment. _That_ was his best friend, and this certitude made Beleg feel strangely safe. Even though the only one able to protect him right now was sleeping.

…Or were they really alone, the young man and himself? Beleg shifted his head to the left, which sent spikes of white-hot pain down his body. He moaned slightly, but suddenly caught sight of another figure that was sitting against a broad tree.

It was a white-haired elf with aged features and only one hand. Gwindor.

Beleg cracked his lips open, trying to speak, but the former lord of Nargothrond cut him off with a glare.

Moving carefully, wishing neither to jostle Beleg nor to waken Túrin, Gwindor crouched down beside the injured Sinda and took the wet cloth that was on his forehead. He picked up a bowl of cool water and soaked the rag in it before he began to gently wipe Beleg's brow. Beads of sweat were rolling down the wounded elf's face and his features were tensed in suffering.

"Don't you _dare_ try to speak, Beleg," said the Noldo in a tone that left no room for contestation. "You are still very weak, my friend, and this wound on that side of yours is quite bad. Let us say wounds of this sort are _usually fatal_. Túrin and I feared we had lost you."

There was a deep concern in his voice, and he did not even try to hide it. Beleg flashed him a small smile that was meant to be reassuring, but it quickly turned in a wince and the archer moaned softly. Everything hurt so _badly_.

Seeing the great pain his friend was in, Gwindor grabbed a waterskin and carefully pulled Beleg's head on his own lap. Then, he helped him to drink slowly.

Beleg was deeply grateful for the liquid, even though it was not water, but some kind of painkiller tea that smelled foul and tasted worse. He would have gagged in other circumstances, but today he was just happy to have something to dull his senses.

"Sorry about that," said Gwindor with a sheepish grin, referring to the tea. "In my defense, you clearly needed it," he added with a soft smile and something akin to a wink.

Beleg was too weak to form an answer, but he let his gaze talk for him, and Gwindor saw in the clear eyes that the Sinda was not angry at all. In fact, he was too worn to even care about what he swallowed, as long as it helped with the pain.

Gwindor stroked the chestnut hair lightly, which made Beleg relax a little bit more.

"You should go back to sleep," said the Noldo quietly. "Túrin is not going to wake up anytime soon; I drugged him two hours ago. The stubborn, foolish lad wanted to stay with you. Not something I would object against normally, but he had not slept more than half an hour in _five days_ , the idiotic boy."

Beleg gasped at that. Not because of the obvious stupidity of Túrin, who seemed to have no knowledge of the limits of the human stamina, but because of the _five days_ part.

It had _only_ been five days?! It had felt like so much longer!

…But five days since _what_ , exactly? Beleg could not remember anything that could explain why he was in this condition. He also found that he did not even know how he had ended in the void in the first place.

He frowned in confusion and tried to ask something, but Gwindor cut him off again, still stroking his damp hair in a most relaxing fashion.

"There will be time for tales later," he said gently but firmly. His voice was strong and steady, so unlike the one of the terrified and maimed elf that Beleg had found in the forest less than a week ago. "Do not trouble yourself about what is in the past. Now, all you have to focus about is on getting better. Túrin would not forgive himself if you had a relapse while he was sound asleep – and _no_ , do not give me that look. I do _not_ think I am going to tell Húrin's son that I drugged his food. He is too much like his father for my liking, and I value my life."

Thingol's Marchwarden would have chuckled if he had the energy. As he had almost none left, he just locked his gaze on Gwindor's and let his eyes and slight smile tell for him how amusing he found the thought of the Noldo getting killed as a punishment for _drugging_ the young human.

Gwindor smirked and gently squeezed Beleg's arm. "Rest now. We are in a safe place and have no reason to hurry."

At these words, Beleg's dimmed eyes lit up with curiosity. He had absolutely no wish to sleep now, for he still had questions that needed answers and Gwindor's comment had revived his curiosity. He wanted to know where they were exactly and what had happened.

So Beleg Cúthalion, the Strongbow of Doriath and Thingol's Marchwarden, stubbornly kept his eyes open and hardened his gaze until it looked like grey adamant, that diamond-like stone well loved by the Noldorin craftsmen.

Gwindor flinched. It was hard to resist such a glare. He sighed deeply. Beleg deserved to be aware of a couple of things – like the fact that he had almost been killed by his best friend – but the Noldo could not yet bring himself to speak of the recent events. It was too soon.

He tried to get around the problem by a slight shrug and a basic answer made with a casual tone. "All you need to know for now is that we are in a well-hidden glade with a deep stream nearby and plenty of animals in the vicinity. We do not have to worry about the water or the food."

The other elf frowned. That answered only to the first part of his unspoken question, and it was nowhere near of satisfying for someone inquisitive as Beleg. But he could not do anything to help it.

And he hated to admit it, but he was beginning to be _really_ tired again. He wiggled a little in spite of his pain and settled himself on Gwindor's lap in a slightly more comfortable way. Dear Valar, that was good to be able to lean on someone sometimes! People always made good pillows – to quote Nellas, who had the habit of falling asleep on her brother Oropher.

Beleg sighed deeply. Soon, his eyes slid shut and he allowed his tense body to go slack.

Gwindor was still stroking the damp chestnut hair, smiling. Right now Beleg looked terrible – he had a far-too-pale complexion, dark circles under his eyes, and an heavily bandaged abdomen – but he was still alive, and that was all that mattered.

~oOo~

Beleg woke up again only an hour or so later. The first thing he became aware of was that he was _frozen_. His slender body was shaking so hard that he feared he might break in two, and when he tried to curl into a ball to keep himself warm he felt such an agony that he totally lost his voice. The pain was so strong that he could not make a sound, neither a cry nor a moan nor even a sob. Apparently the painkilling tea's effects had worn out.

He gasped for air, panicking. He had never felt something like this before and did not know how to deal with it. Of course he had been wounded many times before, but never to this extent! Why was not Gwindor here, or Túrin? What were they doing? He wanted to call, but he could not, and so he just lay here for at least five minutes, trembling and more alone that he had ever been, even in the void.

And then, at last, he heard Gwindor's voice.

" _By the Two Trees_ , Beleg! What is happening? Why did you not call?"

Beleg could have wept with relief. One of his friends was there. He was not alone. All would be well.

The white-haired elf dropped on his knees next to the younger immortal and checked his temperature. His worried expression quickly turned to distress.

"Ai, my friend! You are burning up!" exclaimed the Noldo.

 _Burning?_ thought Beleg incredulously. _What is he talking about? I am freezing, not burning!_

Gwindor picked a wet cloth and started to gently wipe Beleg's arms, neck and brow. Finding his voice again, Beleg groaned loudly and tried to get away, but all his muscles were far too tense to move. And anyway, he was too weak. He moaned again. The cool rag felt like torture for his already frozen body.

 _Please stop it, please stop it, please stop it…_ he begged silently.

After a moment, Gwindor took pity of him and put down the cloth, before he began to _very_ carefully pull Beleg in an almost sitting position.

The wounded elf let out a cry of agony. If only the pain could stop and the cold go away! Tears began to stream down Beleg's face and he sobbed quietly.

Letting his hurting friend's back rest on his own chest, Gwindor gripped Beleg's hand tightly and managed a shadow of smile. "It is alright, all will be fine, you will see." His voice was soothing.

Beleg gasped in pain once more before burying his face in Gwindor's shoulder. Everything _hurt_ …

Gwindor hugged him tightly, tears pricking his own eyes and his soft heart tearing apart at the sight of his friend's suffering.

"It is alright, all will be well, you will be fine," whispered the older elf again, trying to reassure his distressed friend. Beleg looked very much like a little elfling right now, and Gwindor's protective instincts towards younglings were rather strong. Maybe…maybe it was because of Gelmir, his little brother that he had failed to protect. His heart ached at the memory.

"It is okay, it is alright…" he soothed again, vowing silently to protect the younger Sinda whatever the cost.

The words relaxed Beleg a little and he sagged against Gwindor, trying to stifle his sobs. Then, he realized that nobody had ever seen him on such a state. He had _never_ let any weakness of his show itself in such a fashion, let alone in the presence of someone. Not even Túrin or Mablung had ever seen him cry. Usually he was stronger than that, he thought, without realizing that usually he was not injured this badly.

Gwindor, still hugging Beleg in an attempt to give him some warm and comfort, murmured brokenly, "I am sorry, my friend. I cannot give you a cloak or a blanket. You feel cold, but it is because your fever has increased. It will worsen to a dangerous point if I give you more heat than just my own."

Then, something clicked in Beleg's head. That was it! That was how his state was possible despite the fact that he was an elf. He _was_ not cold, he was _feeling_ cold.

…Somehow, this was not a particularly comforting thought.

He snuggled a bit more against Gwindor – that felt really much like Beleg's own father right now – and whimpered slightly, unwilling to worry his friend but unable to hold it back.

Gwindor winced at the sound. "I cannot give you a more potent tea either. Your body is too weakened to bear something stronger. And this one you had previously must not be taken more than once per day, otherwise it would make you sick. I am sorry."

Beleg nodded soundlessly. He was exhausted and hurt and frozen – burning, actually, but that was the same – and afraid, so the only good thing he could now find in the situation was that he was not alone. He had to hold on to this idea. He was _not_ alone. His friends were there. His friends were helping.

Suddenly, he felt himself being rocked back and forth, and a Noldorin lullaby reached his ears. It was calm, and beautiful, and he wished that the song could never end.

Gathering every bit of strength he had, he unclenched his chattering teeth and said in a barely existent whisper, "Th…Thank y…you…"

Gwindor grinned, still rocking Beleg slowly. "You are welcome, elfling."

The exasperated glance that Beleg threw at him before he drifted into an uneasy sleep was a sight to behold.

~oOo~

When Beleg made his way through consciousness again, the first thing he became aware of was that _Túrin_ was tending to him. He would have recognized the boy anywhere.

The elf tried to open his eyes, eager to see his best friend and tell him he was alright (he was obviously not, but Túrin did not need to know that), but the sun was shining too brightly that day and so he gave up. His whole body was already hurting; there was no need to burn his precious eyes as well.

So he just lifted his hand – Varda, even _that_ was hard! – and covered Túrin's.

The human all but jumped in surprise. "Beleg? You are awake?" he cried in delight.

The wounded elf gave the ghost of a smile, eyes still tightly shut. "…Morning."

The young human felt a big lump in his throat and his eyes moistened inexplicably. "It is almost midday, you lazy Firstborn," he croaked, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Thoughts were spinning in his head at a dizzying speed. Beleg was awake. Beleg had smiled. Beleg had spoken. Beleg was _alive_. Things were going too well; it could not be real. Not so long ago, Húrin's son had been convinced that he would never see his friend smile again.

Túrin stood up, wanting to call Gwindor, but Beleg's pleading voice held him back. "Do not…go…"

And so Thingol's foster son stayed still, frozen, his mind racing. Right now Beleg wanted him by his side, but what would it be in a few days? Could Beleg even bear to look at the man he'd called brother, knowing that said man had _mistaken him for an_ _ **Orc**_ and almost killed him?

…What would Túrin do without his best friend?

Biting his lips and pushing away what he considered to be selfish thoughts, Túrin crouched beside the elf again and gently took his hand. A few tears were silently rolling down his face. They stayed like this a rather long time, neither speaking nor moving, before Beleg cracked his eyelids open and looked at his anguished friend.

"Why…are you crying…you…silly boy?" he whispered, concern clearly audible in his pained voice.

Túrin quickly sniffed and wiped the tears away. He did not wish Beleg to worry about him. The elf had no need of that.

"I…" he began, not sure what to say.

Beleg smiled reassuringly and clutched the human's hand harder.

"There is…no point in worrying…I will be fine," he said quietly. "You…you do not…have to cry… I am here…now. Everything…will be okay…"

How the roles were reversed now! A day prior it was Beleg who cried in distress while someone attempted to comfort him, and now he was the one soothing a friend.

 _Well_ , he thought, _I guess it is because I feel a little better today._

Túrin, on the other hand, was near a breakdown. He had wielded Anglachel against her rightful owner and pierced his side, leaving him half-dead. He had almost killed an immortal, someone who was not supposed to die. He had almost murdered his best friend. And now, said best friend was trying to comfort him even though _he_ was the one in pain, feverish and utterly spent.

That was just too much guilt to bear for one young human.

Túrin collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably. He pulled Beleg in his arms and hugged him carefully, still crying.

"I – I… It is my fault… I am sorry, I am sorry… It is all my fault and please, please forgive me… Please forgive me…"

Beleg was stunned. What in Mandos' name was happening to his friend? Deciding that it was only a consequence of the shock, he hugged back the man with all the strength he had, which was not much.

It took a very long time for Túrin to calm down, and he did not let go of his friend until Gwindor's arrival.

The Noldorin Elf was carrying a lot of herbs and healing items, his gaze stern. "Túrin, stop crying and come help me," said the elder elf, not harshly, but firmly. "We must change Beleg's bandages."

Túrin sniffed and scrutinized his best friend's face. The handsome elven features were tensed in constant suffering. The young human winced.

"Can we not wait?" he asked hesitantly. "It is better to tend him when he is unconscious. I mean, he is in a lot of pain right now and…"

"I _know_ that!" snapped Gwindor, who for some reason seemed to be in a very foul mood. "Do you really think I am happier than you to cause him suffering? He has bled through the bandages again, and I am pretty sure that the infection is worsening. I gave you two some time alone, but now we _have_ to take care of the wound. I will _not_ lose him because of negligence. Is that clear?"

Túrin bit his lips and nodded curtly, clearly hurt by Gwindor's harshness.

A huffed grunt startled both the human and the Noldo.

"I know not if you are aware…but I am awake…and thus perfectly able to hear you both…" said Beleg rather grumpily, his eyes twinkling with humour nonetheless. "It is…very uncourteous to speak of someone who is here…without addressing him. I thought your mothers…had raised the two of you…to be polite." There, the Sinda was forced to stop, panting, for he had talked a little too much for someone in his state of weakness.

Gwindor chuckled, his temper softening. He gave Beleg a pat on his shoulder.

"And _I_ thought that you had learnt how to speak properly to your elders. Thingol's folks are clearly ill-educated. We Noldor are far more civilized than your barbarian kind!"

Beleg cocked one of his eyebrows so high that it almost disappeared into his hair. "You are kidding…right?"

Gwindor smirked.

"Hush now, baby elfling. Close your eyes and try to relax. We shall not take too long."

The tired elf did as he was told, smiling wearily.

Túrin grinned, even though deep down he was far from cheerful.

"Did you just call the mighty Cúthalion 'baby elfling'?" he asked in a playful tone, nudging Gwindor slightly.

"Aye, I did," came the short reply. "Now, will you please give me the white leaf that is in the smallest bag and help me to clean the wound, young man?"

The two worked quickly, but it still seemed an eternity for Beleg, who had the impression that his whole side was on fire. None of the salves used were really alleviating the pain, and soon he let the blessed unconsciousness claim him.

Beleg's fever had risen again, but this time he _was_ feeling hot rather than cold. And so sleep felt like hell as imaginary flames swallowed him alive. He groaned in his restless slumber and struggled a little, trying to escape those he thought to be responsible of his torment.

That his condition had worsened so fast deeply worried Túrin and Gwindor, who kept watch over him for hours, wincing at the slightest moan and gently applying cool cloths on his wound and brow. Fortunately, the fever lowered itself after a while, and so Gwindor forced Túrin to get some rest. He almost had to knock him out to make him leave Beleg's side.

 _This boy,_ thought the Noldo with fond exasperation, _is the thickest-headed human I ever met! He is even worse than his father._

~oOo~

When the young man woke up a while after – it was already night, actually – the first thing he did was to check on his friend. He gently put his hand on the elf's forehead and found the skin a little warm, but not too much, and so sighed in relief. He sat down, holding Beleg's hand like he had done much too often this recent days.

Gwindor was watching him from where he was sitting, his grey eyes gleaming in the firelight.

"Why does he not heal himself?" Túrin asked quietly. He knew that Beleg's healing skills were great, and many times before he had witnessed them. The elf was among the most powerful of his Sindarin kinsmen, after all.

Gwindor stared at Húrin's son wordlessly, his face blank. After a minute, he asked a question back, his voice devoid of emotion. "What do you think?"

Túrin hesitated. "Maybe…maybe the wound is too bad? It should have killed him, and I think he stayed alive only because I called him just before his life faded completely. His…his _fëa_ was already on the road to Mandos' Halls, but he turned back in time. Maybe that left his body without enough strength to heal itself. Am I right?"

His Noldorin companion looked away, deep in thoughts. "You may be, Túrin," he said eventually, eyes still unfocused. "But whether you are or not, I can tell you that there is another reason. _You_ wounded him. He loves you as a brother, and maybe even as a son sometimes. He might not be aware of it, but the fact that it was _you_ who nearly killed has greatly hindered his healing abilities."

That left the young human stunned.

"But… but…" he choked, "he does not know it was me!"

Gwindor sighed deeply and turned to face Túrin again. "He does not _remember_ it was you for now, but the memories are only suppressed, not gone. And they will wake soon, no matter how much you do not want them to. You must talk with him _before_ he recalls, otherwise he will feel betrayed," said the Noldo with a grim tone.

"He will feel betrayed whether I speak with him or not," whispered Túrin brokenly, looking down and letting his gaze rest upon the far-too-pale features of Beleg.

Losing his temper, Gwindor stood up and almost shouted, "Then _what are you going to do_? _Lie_ to him? Wait for him to discover the truth?"

"I do _not_ know what I am going to do!" hissed Túrin. "Do you think it is easy? I cannot just wait for him to awaken and greet him with something like, _Hey, Beleg, do you want to know why you have been lying here for almost a week now with a fever and a bleeding hole in your side? Well, when you saved me I mistook you for an Orc because of the storm and stabbed you with the_ _ **very sword**_ _you had used to cut my bonds!_ " His voice had risen hysterically by the end.

His companion looked at him unblinkingly before he sat down again, sighing, "You are right, I am sorry. It will probably not be easy at all. But still, you have tell him. I was hoping that you would do so when the two of you were alone yesterday."

The human bit his lips, blushing slightly in shame. "You were there, right?"

Gwindor acquiesced with a silent nod.

"…Is it because of my silence that you were in such foul mood later?" Túrin asked quietly, his head bowed low because he was unable to meet the immortal's eyes.

The white-haired elf nodded shortly. There was no need for words. The two stayed silent a long time before Túrin spoke again in a whisper almost impossible to hear, "He is going to hate me." His heart shattered in thousands of pieces at the mere thought, and he swallowed painfully. He was far beyond tears now, so deep were his guilt and sorrow.

As angry as Gwindor was with against the human, he could not stay quiet after such a statement. His own gentle soul was hurting at the sight of Túrin's despair. He walked toward Turambar and Beleg – who was still asleep – and dropped to the ground beside the distraught young one. He laid his hand on Túrin's shoulder and managed a small smile.

"I think you give him far less credit than he deserves. He is your best friend. Your mentor. Your brother. From what I have heard, you dragged him in very dire situations before, and he never failed to forgive you. Remember all that happened from the fight with Saeros until that night when Beleg and I – well, mostly Beleg – rescued you from the Orcs? I do not wish to make you feel guilty, but…you wronged him many times. Yet he always stayed by your side without any bitter thoughts or feelings of anger. I do not see why it should be different now."

Túrin did not answer, but he rewarded his newfound Noldorin friend with a nod of gratitude. Maybe Gwindor was right, after all. Maybe Beleg would forgive him. He had to hope.

He opened his mouth to thank him for his comforting words when he felt his hands being squeezed. He looked down immediately, startled. Beleg was glaring at him, his gaze tired but piercing nevertheless.

Túrin felt nauseous. How much had he heard? That was _not_ how he wished to explain to the elf what had happened!

The human shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. The fact that Gwindor was just behind him, his own sharp gaze boring holes in Túrin's back, was not helping _at all!_

"I…" began the young man.

Beleg cut him off flatly, saying, "You are an idiot." And then he fell asleep again.

Gwindor and Túrin exchanged astonished glances. That was _totally_ unexpected.

"…Well," said Gwindor slowly, "I guess this settles the problem."

And he lay down beside the fire, letting his mind wander on the path of elven dreams.

 _Damn these immortals!_ thought Túrin. _Falling asleep and leaving me alone to try to figure out what their cryptic words mean!_

Maybe Gwindor was somehow able to read his mind, because the white-haired Firstborn suddenly smirked in his slumber.

~oOo~

Túrin did not sleep that night but instead kept watch over the two elves, his mind in deep turmoil and his heart in an even worse state. What were Beleg's words supposed to mean? That he was an idiot because he had mistaken an elf for an _Orc?_ That he was an idiot because he had not waited to see who was "attacking" him before he stroked? That he was an idiot because he had _omitted_ to tell Beleg what had happened?

When the dawn came at last, Thingol's foster-son was utterly exhausted, both in body and spirit, but still unable to find sleep. Gwindor – who had probably not truly rested since the…err…"rescue that had almost turned into something akin to Kinslaying" was still far away, strolling on the elven spirits' paths. Beleg was also sleeping, but in a mortal fashion, his eyes shut like they often were those later days.

After long minutes spent scrutinizing his comrades, Túrin began to shift uncomfortably. He knew that it was foolish to let the camp unguarded when his two companions were resting, but human bodies had both limits and natural needs. And so he stood up and walked away for… well… relieve himself.

When he came back, he almost jumped in surprise. Beleg was sitting by himself – something he had not done since he had been wounded – and looked much better than before. Túrin stayed where he was, frozen, his mouth agape. He had so much to say, and yet had not the slightest idea of where to begin.

Beleg settled the problem once again.

"Come here," he said with a firm voice that betrayed little of his prior weakness.

Túrin walked toward the elf, his legs shaking.

"Sit down," demanded Beleg.

Túrin compelled silently, eyes cast down. Now, he was sure, Beleg was going to yell at him and tell him what a miserable excuse for a friend he was and that it should have been him at the pointed end of Anglachel. And he would deserve that.

"Túrin, look at me when I am talking to you." Beleg's irate voice drew him back to reality.

"You are the most idiotic boy I ever met!" the elf continued, almost shouting. "Do you really think I am going to hate you because you made a big mistake? Come one! What happened was not your first one, nor your biggest! And I am not dead, so _why_ are you carrying such guilt and fear? Please, stop doubting our friendship. We are _brothers_ , Túrin! And as much as they might want to, brothers cannot just _stop_ being brothers. Do you understand me? You _messed up_ , yes, and what then? I thought I had told you before than often even _my_ actions were not guided by wisdom."

The young human stared at his best friend speechlessly. Once again he definitely was not expecting that. And so he stayed still, looking right in Beleg's eyes, searching for hatred and loathing.

Seeing the insecurity in the young man's gaze, Beleg sighed deeply and lay back on the blanket he was using as a bed. He stared at the sky silently, his hands crossed beneath his head. After a moment, he spoke again.

"Túrin," he asked, "if our roles were reversed, would _you_ hate me?"

The human shook his head. "There is no way our roles could have been reversed. You are an elf; you have better sight and quicker reflexes. You would not have stabbed me. Moreover, I am a mortal. _I_ would have died if I had taken such a grievous wound."

"I would have died too if not for you. You called me back. But please, answer me. Would _you_ hate me?" Beleg whispered sadly.

"No," came the almost inaudible reply.

Fortunately, elven ears are sharp. Beleg's smile was so bright that it put Laurelin and Telperion to shame.

"There! You said it," he cried cheerfully, sitting up straight again. "Do you think me to be a lesser person than you are? And please, do not begin with the _you are an elf so your life is worth more than mine because Elves are not supposed to die when it is the fate of all mortals_! That literally makes no sense and you are not allowed to say things like this."

Túrin stared at him. _Damn all these pointy-eared immortals!_ he thought. _They will be the death of me._

And he flung himself into Beleg's waiting arms.

This time there were no tears, for he was just too relieved. He was so happy that he had forgotten everything about Beleg's wound, and he hugged him tightly. The Firstborn did not appreciate the bone-crushing embrace very much.

Beleg grunted. "Get off! I cannot breathe, you half-witted human!" he growled. His eyes were sparkling with unconcealed joy.

Túrin moved back, grinning.

A warm laugh suddenly filled the glade. Gwindor had woken – well, in fact, he had probably been awake for a while now – and was watching them happily.

"What did I tell you, Túrin? You are a most foolish boy, do you know that?" he exclaimed merrily, shaking his head.

The young man did not reply. His grin just grew wider.

"I trust your healing abilities have come back, Beleg?" asked Gwindor with a smile.

Beleg carefully touched the bandage wrapped around the tender flesh of his side and winced ever so slightly, but said "Yes" nonetheless.

"Yes, I am recovering, thanks to them. Still a bit sore and tired, but I should be alright."

"Good," said the Noldo, nodding. "May I ask you what roused your elven healing skills from their little sleep?"

The younger elf turned his gaze towards Túrin and smiled.

"Well," he said slowly, "I just remembered what happened with the Orcs, and I saw by my own eyes – hmm, not exactly since I was actually asleep, but you get my meaning – that Túrin's actions were only an accident. Before I heard you two speak, my mind was not aware of the fact that this idiotic mortal had mistaken me for a creature of the Dark Lord and thus nearly killed me – please do not give that look, Túrin; I am jesting – but my heart…my heart knew it. It relieved me to know that Thingol's son is not a traitor, but simply has a very bad sight."

The white-haired elf broke into a grin once again – by Manwë's name, it was good to smile!

"I knew it!" exclaimed Gwindor. "See, Túrin, that is exactly what I told you! You should learn to respect the ever-wise words of the Quendi, boy."

Túrin shook his head, looking exasperated.

"Yadda yadda yadda. _Ever-wise words of the Quendi,_ my friend Gwindor? I think not. Beleg here is not the smallest bit wise."

Beleg gave him the _how-dare-you-you-little-rascal_ look. That would have frightened anyone, but Túrin just punched him lightly on the shoulder. The two soon began to banter in a most childish way, and _old and wise_ Gwindor Guilinion just listened their bickering, happiness mixing with grief, weariness and nostalgy. He used to act the same with Gelmir.

…Or perhaps it was not exactly the same. Gelmir and he had been far more disciplined, trained as the princes and nobles they were. He suppressed a sigh. The time of youth was long gone for him now, it seemed. But when he watched his two friends he could not help but want to join them in their antics. He opened his mouth, about to say something like "Stop behaving like empty-headed Dwarven children," but a very loud gurgle stopped him.

"What was _that?_ " he cried in surprise.

Beleg pressed a hand to his stomach and looked down sheepishly. "I, ah…maybe happen to be very hungry?"

Túrin dissolved into laughter.

"We all heard that, my friend," Gwindor agreed.

The other scowled and hit him lightly on the shoulder. "Hey, it is not my fault! I have not eaten anything in a week!" he exclaimed.

"But yes, you have," said Gwindor with a smile. "We gave you broth and tea, remember?"

Beleg huffed in annoyance and glared at him. "Let me rephrase. I have not eaten anything _solid_ in a week."

The two others chuckled and Túrin quickly reached for his pack, from whence he pulled a bundle of dark-green leaves.

"Fortunately, that can be helped," replied Túrin, smiling and handing some lembas to his friend.

Beleg's eyes lit up. "Queen Melian be blessed! I could never thank her enough for her gifts," he said happily, taking the precious waybread.

He ate it slowly, careful not to make himself sick. He was tired enough; there was no need to exhaust himself again by throwing up. Despite the fact that he could now stay upright by himself, eat, and speak easily, his weary body still needed a lot of rest. Gwindor had easily noticed that just like the good mother-hen he was, and he decided that something had to be done about it, even though Beleg had just woken. So the Noldo grabbed his waterskin and poured some of the tea that it contained into a cup, winking imperceptibly to Túrin. The human nodded his approval, the shadow of a sly smile on his lips.

To Gwindor's pleasure, Beleg accepted the cup and took a sip of the tea, only to find that it tasted surprisingly sweet. He drank the liquid without a second thought, emptying the cup in less than a minute.

And he failed to see Túrin's smirk. _Immortals_ , thought the young man, _are far too trusting for their own good._  
  
Soon after he had finished the tea, Beleg yawned widely, even though he tried to hide it behind his hand. He was not very successful, however.

 _What in Anor's name is happening to me? I should not be so tired! I have been awake for less than an hour!_ Beleg mentally exclaimed.

His eyes were beginning to close against his will, and on the top of that Gwindor and Túrin were staring at him, both wearing idiotic grins.

"What?" he snapped, exasperated by their identically stupid smiles. Túrin suddenly took his by the shoulders and forced him to lay down on his bedroll. Beleg threw him an angry glance. "What do you think you are doing, son of Húrin?" he hissed with an icy tone.

"He," answered Gwindor, a chuckle threatening to escape his lips, "is putting you to bed, baby elfling."

"You…You…You drugged me!" Beleg spluttered, finally understanding why he was falling asleep so suddenly.

Gwindor shrugged. "You clearly needed it," he said flatly.

Beleg had no love for lies, so he did not try to deny the Noldo's statement. He was indeed in great need of rest, for his healing abilities had taken their toll on him. And, if he was honest with himself, he would not have gone to sleep willingly. So maybe – maybe – Gwindor's trick had been justified.

The elf curled in a loose ball, yawning again, and glared half-heartedly at his friends. "I am still very angry at you two for treating me like a child and drugging me. You shall both pay for that."

His two companions raised their eyebrows, clearly far from impressed. They really did not mind if their rock-headed Sindarin friend was angry at them. As long as said Sinda rested enough to recover…

They watched Beleg's silent struggle to stay awake with satisfied expressions. It was obvious that the archer was not winning. However that did not stopped him from trying.

After a moment, Beleg understood that he had lost the fight, and he relaxed totally.

"Now I know why elves sleep with their eyes open…" he whispered drowsily for Túrin's benefit as the human laid a soft blanket on him.

The man arched an eyebrow and smirked. He loved to do that; he had perfected it through the years. "And why is that, O all knowing Firstborn?"

Said Firstborn grinned. Beleg loved to grin. He had an insufferable way of grinning that was making him look adorable and innocent – except for those who knew better.

"Well, we are smarter than you mortals; that is why," declared the elf.

Túrin frowned, purposely ignoring Gwindor, who was trying to stifle his chuckles.

"I fail to see your point, my dear friend," Túrin answered tartly.

"Think about all the energy it takes to open your eyes at the morning. You mortals pointlessly waste your strength. We elves are clever enough not to make the same mistake," explained the clever Elf.

Túrin chuckled fondly. _That_ was the Beleg he knew. He watched his almost-asleep best friend close his heavy eyelids. "Are you feeling human today?" he deadpanned.

"Your fault…" came the amused reply.

And then the elf was asleep one again.

Túrin had stopped dead at the "your fault" part, and he was now staring at his friend with wide – and frightened – eyes.

"Was he…talking about the…what I did to him?" he asked fearfully.

Gwindor sighed and ruffled the young man's hair.

"He was talking about the _drug._ Now _please_ , stop feeling guilty and miserable at the slightest provocation! It is tiring," replied the white-haired Noldo grumpily.

Túrin took a deep breath and nodded. He had to believe that Gwindor was right. He had to believe it, otherwise he would never be truly at peace again.

He was about to change the topic when a disturbing thought popped up in his mind. "Hey Gwindor? That tea you made him drink – would it have something to do with that time when _I_ fell asleep without apparent reason and woke up almost a day after?" he asked suspiciously, his eyes narrowed.

Gwindor was wearing the most unconvincingly innocent look ever. "I do not know what you are talking about. You fell asleep because you were exhausted, young one. Besides, when did I give you tea?"

"So," inquired Túrin, still suspicious, "you never drugged my drink?"

"I never did such a thing," answered calmly the elf.

 _That is not a lie, I only drugged his food,_ thought Gwindor, trying to convince himself.

Túrin was far from fooled, but he had no real evidence that the elf was lying, so he said nothing and decided to let the matter rest. That was not so important after all.

Feeling weary, the young human lay a few feet away from his best friend and flashed a cheeky grin to Gwindor. "You'll take the watch, it seems. Beleg cannot and I – the simple mortal who has not been graced with the stamina of Elves – need to rest before I pass out," he said, his voice _dripping_ with irony.

However Gwindor acquiesced. It was only fairness that he was the one to stay awake this time. He did not acknowledge Turin's comment and just shook his head with fond exasperation as he watched the human pass into dreamland.

He settled down.

"These half-witted younglings are going to be the death of me. Really, who would have thought that the thing which would help me to heal after my captivity in Angband would be a idiotic son of Men and his even more idiotic Sindarin brother?" he mused aloud. "If someone had told me that when I was mining in those horrible tunnels, I do not know how I would have reacted. Maybe I would have punched him."

~oOo~

"So," started Beleg, his eyes inexplicably wet, "you are really going back to Nargothrond?"

Gwindor nodded slowly, averting his gaze from the Sinda's. They had talked about this before.

"Yes. I am sorry about it, my friend, but I cannot follow you to Doriath. I would love to, but Noldor are not exactly welcome among your kinsmen, as you surely know. Furthermore, everyone in my city must believe me dead or still captive. I look forward to prove them wrong."

"I understand," came the slow reply.

And indeed Beleg did. He knew perfectly how much it hurt to be separated from loved ones. How many times these past years had he himself looked up to the stars, seeking comfort in the undying beauty of Varda's works because he missed Doriath and its people?

And now here they were. All three of them, standing in the clearing and ready to return home.

Beleg had been deemed strong enough to travel just a day ago by the Noldorin elf (much for Túrin's displeasure, for the young human was still concerned about his best friend's health), and the Sinda had decided to return to Thingol's realm. To Beleg's astonishment and delight, Túrin had agreed without a single hesitation.

Húrin's son had been very shaken by the whole event surrounding his rescue, and his guilt, self-loathing and worry had at least helped him open his eyes on his past mistakes. Túrin was perhaps afraid of what his foster-father would say to him, but nonetheless he deeply longed for a chance to set things right between them. He was even willing to accept whatever punishment Thingol would deem fitting for his deeds. If Túrin was to be banished again (with good reason this time), then so be it! But he was tired of running and hiding from his problems and from his responsibilities. He had done that too many times already, and it had never brought him solutions, only more trials. What he had always proclaimed to be pride and honor now only looked like foolishness and cowardice.

Beyond all of this, the main reason why Túrin had readily accepted going back to Doriath was Beleg. How could he refuse something like this to his brother when he had almost murdered him not two and half weeks ago?

The point was, Beleg and Túrin were going home. Only Gwindor was too. And as his home was different from theirs, it meant the time for farewells had come. It would not be easy. Beleg had strongly bonded with Gwindor in the space of those few days and had ended looking up at him as if the Noldo was in fact a Maia of some kind. Gwindor had taken care of Beleg and also helped Túrin through his grief, and for that the two best friends would be eternally thankful.

At this moment, Beleg was just standing in front of Gwindor, unable to think of something to say to the other. It was Túrin that saved the elves from the awkward silence. The young man stepped beside Beleg and reached forward, pulling Gwindor into an embrace and quickly releasing him.

"We are going to miss you, old one," he said with a false smirk, trying to hide his emotions behind a mask of insolence and self-confidence.

"I know," deadpanned Gwindor, purposely ignoring the comment about his age. "Everybody loves me."

Beleg arched one eyebrow as the tension was easing between them.

"Such _modesty_ , my friend!"

They could have started to banter once more, but right now they all three felt the need to stay serious. Their faces grew somber again.

"It is farewell then," stated the Sindarin elf sadly, addressing to the Noldo. "I can do nothing but support your decision and wish good fortune. May all those who live beyond the seas protect you during your travel."

And he raised a hand to his heart, bowing slightly.

Gwindor mirrored the gesture.

"May the stars shine upon you path, my friends. We will see each other again, I am sure."

And they parted with heavy hearts, heading in opposite directions. Túrin often looked over his own shoulder until Gwindor had completely disappeared into the forest. Afterwards, he just walked silently beside Beleg, the two of them rather gloomy. The trees whispered with voices full of melancholy and the sky was grey and dull, which added to the sad mood.

But after some hours, the elf's face lit up and he started running, to Túrin's horror.

"Beleg, what are you _doing_? You cannot run in your condition; you are still recovering!" he shouted desperately while watching his best friend fly over the forest ground.

"See if I care, human!" answered a laughing Beleg. "You are just too slow to catch up!"

Túrin snorted indignantly and ran after his brother.

Soon they would arrive in Doriath, and he would have to explain himself to his foster-father, to apologize to his friends and to re-accustom himself to life in society. It was quite a list, but the man judged useless to worry about all these things right now. At the moment he just needed to empty his head. So he chased after Beleg, yelling, "Come back here, elfling, or I will drag you by your pointed ear-tips! Am I clear enough?"

"Whatever you say, little one."

"Beleg! Did you just shoot an arrow at me?"

"It was blunt, you whiny boy! And I knew that it would miss you."

"Wait a second!"

"Hey! Mud does not count; you are cheating!"

And they continued their happy bickering, carefree and joyful. What had provoked that sudden change of heart, no one could have tell, but it would not have been surprising that a certain Maia sitting on her beautiful throne beside her husband was behind this.

Whatever the reason, Túrin was more happy than he had been for a long time, and Beleg was too. And that day, life was good because they were alive, because they were heading home, because they had each other.

Yes, life was good indeed.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank my amazing beta, Eryniel Alassë! I wouldn't have done it without you :))
> 
> (Btw, yes, in my mind Anglachel is a female. What can I say ? I am French. We French people give gender to objects... and swords are girls x) She is too special to be a "it" anyway.)


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